1. Sean #2
Thrusting again, deeper this time, and my whole spine shudders. Emiliano’s mouth brushes my ear, and he splits his words with Spanish like he’s carving them into me.
“Qué bonito,” he murmurs. “So pretty when you’re like this.”
My eyes squeeze shut. My throat tightens.
“Hate me,” he says softly. “Go on. Gimme that mouth.”
My laugh comes out broken. “You want my mouth? You already had it when you struck me out.”
Emiliano’s smile presses against my skin like a brand. “And now I want more. Come on… tell me how much you hate that my big dick makes you feel good. Tell me you don’t look forward to our teams playing against each other.”
He thrusts, and my breath punches out of me. The sound that follows is humiliating.
A moan.
Not my name. Not his. Just the raw truth of my body.
Emiliano catches it like he’s been waiting for it all day.
“Ahí está,” he murmurs. “That’s what I wanted.”
I swallow a curse, jaw trembling.
“You’re—” I choke, trying to find an insult sharp enough to hurt him.
Emiliano doesn’t let me, he laces our fingers tighter and pulls my hands a fraction higher on the fence, making my shoulders open, making me feel even more exposed.
“You feel so good wrapped around me,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s stating the weather. “You always do.”
My cheeks burn so hot I swear the chain link will brand my face.
“Stop talking,” I grit out between pants.
“No,” he says again, relentless. “I want your sassy fucking mouth moaning my name.”
My heart stutters.
“Not happening,” I snap, fighting to keep my orgasm from coming too soon.
Emiliano laughs. “Liar.”
He moves with intention, his rhythm tightening, control sharpening, and my body starts to unravel. I can’t hold the edge of my pride anymore. I can’t hold the guilt, either. It’s all too much, tangled up with the way he’s holding my hands like I belong to him.
He leans in, his voice turning almost gentle, “Mírame,” he whispers.
I can’t.
My face is against the fence, eyes squeezed shut.
It’s too much.
“Cobre,” he says, firmer. “Look at me.”
I force my head to turn, just a little, cheek scraping the chain link. Emiliano’s face is close behind my shoulder, eyes dark, focused, hungry. He looks like he always does on the mound.
Like he already knows how this ends.
“You’re wanted,” he says quietly, and the sincerity in it almost ruins me more than the sex. “Do you understand? I want this. You get on my nerves out there… but here.” He pauses. “I don’t just tolerate you so I can get off. This is more than that.”
My throat tightens so hard it hurts, and my fingers squeeze his. The guilt flares deep, furious and bright, like an alarm bell going off in my chest.
This is wrong.
This is not who you’re supposed to be.
But Emiliano’s hand is on mine. His body is against mine. His voice is in my ear, telling me I’m wanted like it’s the only truth that matters.
And I can’t stop.
Emiliano kisses the side of my neck. It’s not soft, not sweet, just a hot press of lips that makes me shake.
“Say my name,” he breathes.
I try to refuse.
I do.
I really do.
But then he shifts, finding the perfect angle, and the sound rips out of me before I can swallow it.
“Emiliano,” I gasp, wrecked.
He makes a low, satisfied sound against my skin. “That's it… oh, good boy… such a good fucking boy.”
The praise hits and my vision blurs, my body snaps tight. The fence bites into my hands as pleasure crests like a wave I can’t outrun. Cum soaks my underwear, and a choked, furious sound leaves my lips.
It’s half a curse, half a prayer.
Emiliano comes a beat later, moaning into my neck as he fills my ass, fingers still laced with mine like he couldn’t let go if he tried.
For a second, everything goes silent.
Not in the stadium.
Inside me.
The guilt pauses, stunned.
Emiliano’s breathing slows. He loosens his grip, but he doesn’t let go.
He presses his forehead to my shoulder, a brief, intimate touch that makes my chest seize.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low.
I swallow hard, still trembling. “Fine.”
Emiliano hums like he doesn’t believe me, then gently releases my hands, pulls my pants up for me, and turns me around.
I expect a smirk. A joke. Something that lets me put the walls back up.
Instead, he leans in.
Slow and careful, like he’s going to kiss me.
The softness of it detonates something inside me.
Panic.
No. No, no, no.
Not that.
We don’t do tender or intimate.
I jerk back so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.
Emiliano freezes, surprise flickering across his face.
“Sean—”
“Don’t,” I snap, voice ragged, buttoning up my pants and tightening my belt. “Don’t do that.”
His brows knit. “Do what?”
“Kiss me,” I spit, like the words taste like sin.
Emiliano’s expression hardens for half a second, hurt flashing hot behind his eyes.
Then his voice goes quiet.
“Why?” he asks. “You’ll let me do all that… but you won’t let me kiss you?”
The guilt roars back to life because the kiss means something. It means choice. It means admitting I’m not just here for hate and release.
I don’t answer him; I can’t.
So I do what I always do.
I run, shoving past him, heart in my throat, hands shaking as I yank open the dugout door.
Behind me, Emiliano says my name once, sharp.
“Sean!”
I don’t look back.
If I look back, I’ll stay.
And if I stay, I’ll have to face what this is.
I’m not ready to be that kind of man.